


Pulse

by biocomp



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Blood, Depictions of Robot Gore, Gun Violence, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Port Fingering?, Slight power dynamics, Transdroid Connor, spit, unprotected sex, wireplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-20
Updated: 2018-08-20
Packaged: 2019-06-30 01:58:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15741807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biocomp/pseuds/biocomp
Summary: “Hank.”  Connor’s voice is soft.  Desperate.  “Fix me.”———Connor is damaged and refuses to go to Cyberlife for repairs.  Hank gives him a hand.





	Pulse

**Author's Note:**

> Finally I, Bop It Neckport, wrote wireplay. It’s only been (looks at my watch) two months. Better late than never, I guess.
> 
> I don’t know anything about wiring or tech, so please forgive me for inaccurate technical terms.

They’re chasing a man suspected of leading one of the anti-android terrorist cells when it happens.

Connor hears the shot. It rings out across the courtyard he and Hank are sprinting through, and then he’s acutely aware of something penetrating the plating of his left shoulder, .87 inches from his spine. Warnings pop into his vision, red and pulsing. His legs stop moving. He loses sensation in a wave, from his toes to his neck, and hits the brick hard. His vision flickers, overwhelmed by alerts. He can hear Hank’s voice, tinny and impossibly distant, before he switches into low power mode and everything goes dark.

______

 

…..  
……….  
……………...  
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SYSTEM REBOOTED SUCCESSFULLY 

HELLO, CONNOR.

04/25/2039

16:33 HOURS

SYSTEM DIAGNOSTIC COMPLETE

NEUROLOGICAL FUNCTIONS — STABLE  
COMMUNICATION SYSTEMS — STABLE  
THIRIUM PUMP REGULATOR — STABLE  
MAJOR MOTOR FUNCTIONS — OFFLINE

SEEK NEAREST CYBERLIFE CENTER FOR ASSISTANCE

Connor blinks rapidly, clearing the boot menu from his vision. He’s horizontal, looking up towards the late afternoon sky. There’s lights reflecting off the buildings around him. Blue, red, blue, red. He tries to sit up and a small yellow exclamation point flashes in the top left corner of his vision.

MOTOR FUNCTIONS OFFLINE  
SEEK NEAREST CYBERLIFE CENTER FOR ASSISTA

He shakes his head, relieved that he can do that much. He realizes he’s lying on a stretcher, that he’s situated behind an ambulance.

“He’s awake.”

Hank’s face comes into view. His brows are furrowed and he touches Connor’s shoulder, squeezing gently. Connor can barely feel it. “You okay, kid?”

Connor blinks at him, wanting desperately to lift his hand and press it over Hank’s. “My motor function is severely impaired.”

“You were hit with a Firecracker.” Another face enters his field of vision, a woman’s. She’s much shorter than Hank, with cropped dark hair and dark skin. An LED blinks in her temple. She holds up an evidence bag. A sleek metal object peeks out at him from behind the label. “A type of bullet we recently discovered being used by anti-android contingents. It would kill a less advanced model than yourself.” She pulls out a pen light and shines it into Connor’s eye. He doesn’t even flinch. “Firecrackers create an electric pulse strong enough to short out all major systems, including biocomponents.”

She lifts Connor’s hand and retracts her skin. Connor tries to comply, but nothing happens. “It seems that you were designed with failsaves in place to avoid completely shorting out. You’ll just need maintenance to repair the connection between your processor and the rest of your systems.”

“So he’s gonna be fine,” Hank clarifies, his hand still pressed to Connor’s shoulder.

“I would take him to the nearest Cyberlife center for repairs.” The android replies. She hands Hank the evidence bag before turning to face Connor again. “I wish you a swift recovery.”

“Thank you,” Connor murmurs. 

———

“I don’t want to go to Cyberlife.”

They’re in Hank’s car. Hank makes a sound in his throat and reaches over to touch the nape of Connor’s neck. Connor is relieved when he can feel the heat, the rough skin of Hank’s fingertips.

“I know.” Hank’s fingers rub absently at Connor’s hairline.

“Please don’t take me there, Hank,” Connor murmurs. His seatbelt is holding him upright, the rest of his body still numb and unresponsive.

“I’m not gonna,” Hank scoffs, gripping his neck gently and jostling him. “We’ll figure this out on our own.”

Connor really, really wants to hold Hank’s hand.

“We haven’t done a major repair before.” Connor’s voice is guarded, cautious. “Do you really think you can handle something of this scale?” This was outside the scope of replacing a biocomponent or updating minor hardware. The probability of something going wrong was much higher and, as much as Connor liked to deny his programming, that scared him a little.

“Your processor’s still fully functional, right?” Hank’s voice is even.

“Correct.” Connor turns his head slightly to consider his partner.

Hank doesn’t take his eyes off the road. “Then you can walk me through it.”

Connor blinks. “Hank,” he starts, trying and failing to clench his tingling fingers into fists. “This procedure could—”

“Do you want me to take you home, or do you want me to take you to fucking android Best Buy?” Hank takes his hand off Connor’s neck to make a turn, the click clack of the blinker rough in Connor’s ears. “If I can replace your goddamn heart, I can handle whatever this is.”

Connor wants to tell hank that replacing a Thirium pump is hardly difficult. Round peg, round hole. But he remembers the trepidation in Hank’s voice, the slight tremble in his hands as he’d done it.

“I trust you.” Connor’s voice is soft, just on the edge of tender. Hank’s shoulders relax.

“Good,” Hank rumbles. He turns onto their street less aggressively than usual, careful not to disturb Connor’s immobile form. The car slows to a stop outside the house and Hank puts it in park, his keys jingling as he yanks them out of the ignition and hoists himself out of the cab. Connor watches him walk around the front and pull the passenger door open. Hank leans over him to undo the latch of his seatbelt. He’s warm and he smells like the aftershave Connor bought him for Christmas.

“Hank,” Connor murmurs.

“What.”

“Kiss me, please.”

The shyness in Connor’s voice catches Hank off guard and his cheeks go pink. He leans up to press his lips to Connor’s gently. Connor hums against his mouth, missing the touch as soon as Hank pulls away.

“Can we get inside, now?” Hank looks at him impatiently. Connor nods. Hank shoves his arm under the crest of Connor’s knees, slings Connor’s heavy arm over his shoulder. He groans as he lifts Connor, bumping the car door shut with his hip. Connor wishes he could hold tight to Hank, not lean the dead weight of his body limply against him.

Hank lugs him to the front door, steps measured but heavy. He’s climbing the porch stairs when he realizes. “Fuck, the keys…”

“I can-” Connor starts, before realizing that he, in fact, cannot.

Hank sighs, murmurs a soft “Sorry about this,” and slings Connor over his shoulder like a sack, his hand on the small of Connor’s back to keep him from slipping. Connor blinks at Hank’s back, his arms dangling loosely over his head. He can hear the keys chime as Hank removes them from his pocket, the click of the deadbolt sliding open. They’re moving, Connor watching Hank’s legs as his arms sway from the movement, then Hank is carefully setting him on the couch. Sumo is barking near the door. Connor can see his tail wagging in his periphery.

“Down, Sumo, down. Come on,” Hank scolds, but his tone is gentle. He closes the door and locks it, kneeling down to rub Sumo’s head and scratch at the fur of his chest. “Connor’s not doing too hot,” Hank murmurs roughly. Sumo leans into his touches. “So be gentle with him.”

Hank stands to take off his coat and Sumo trots over to the couch, resting his head heavy near Connor’s face. His tail wags slowly, his big dewy eyes begging for attention.

“Hey, buddy.” Connor turns his head a little more and Sumo’s tail wags faster. He shuffles his head closer, his tongue peeking out. “I can’t pet you just yet,” Connor murmurs, “but soon.”

Hank’s hand tangles in Connor’s hair and Connor turns his head, meeting Hank’s eyes. 

“I’ll wash my hands and then we’ll get you into the garage, yeah?” Hank’s words are gruff, his voice soft. Connor’s eyes drop closed as his partner scratches at his scalp, brushes the curl from his forehead.

“Yeah.” Connor wants everything back to normal. He wants to be able to hold Hank, to walk Sumo. “I’ll run a diagnostic to determine the specifics of the repair.”

Hank grunts and vanishes into the kitchen. Sumo follows after him, woofing.

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll feed you, you big idiot.”

__________

Back when the revolution ended, back when everything was so incredibly uncertain, Connor built a maintenance rig in the garage. Hank helped, holding pieces in place while Connor welded, sitting up into the early hours of the morning watching Connor work. Hank was familiar with the ins and outs of the thing by the time Connor had finished, and that had been the start of his assisting Connor with repairs.

Now he carries Connor into the garage, Connor’s torso resting heavy against his front, his arms over either of Hank’s shoulders, the slope of his thighs under Hank’s hands. 

“You’ll have to undress me,” Connor says, and Hank nods against his cheek.

“Guess I should have done that in the living room, huh.”

Connor smiles a little, the world shifting as Hank lays him down on the workbench and starts unlatching the buckle of his belt. 

“I was hoping to get you naked for other reasons tonight,” Hank snorts. Connor chuckles softly, making a little noise in his throat when Hank lifts his hips and shimmies his pants off.

“Please fold them.”

“So pushy.” Hank makes a show of holding up the slacks, folding them like he’s seen Connor do a thousand times. “Gotta boss me around even when I’m trying to help you.” He shakes his head, a small smile on the corner of his lips.

“And the—”

“I’ll fold your shirt too, Connor. Jesus.” Hank loosens Connor’s tie, carefully slipping the end from the loop and laying it flat along the bench. His fingers start popping buttons through their holes to reveal the speckled skin of Connor’s chest. He pulls one arm through the garment at a time, sliding the shirt out from under the android’s heavy form.

“Oh.” Hank holds the shirt up, showing Connor the bullet hole in the back. “You still want this? Or should I toss it?”

Connor’s mouth squishes down into a little pout as he thinks. He’s been shot before. He’s been shot many times. It’s still strange to see the remnants of that fact present in his clothing. “I suppose we should recycle it.”

Hank folds it anyway, setting it next to Connor’s other clothes. “You can figure that out when you’re up to it.” Hank shifts Connor upright and he sees he’s still wearing his underwear, his socks. He huffs out a little sigh at that, letting his chin rest heavy on Hank’s shoulder as his partner lifts him again. 

The rig is a big black metal monster of a thing, covered in white plating and lights. Hank reaches up and presses at the space between Connor’s shoulder blades, relieved when the port there opens with a quiet hiss. “I was worried I was gonna have to literally pry you open,” he says, hoisting Connor onto the waiting arms of the dock. Connor slots easily into them, the metal rod between them sliding perfectly into the open port. The rig blinks to life, a screen mounted onto the left side listing Connor’s serial number and system status. Hank ignores it, dropping to his knees to slide off Connor’s socks. He presses his fingers to Connor’s hips and kisses just above the dip of his navel.

“You want these on or off, chief?”

“Off,” Connor murmurs, sighing as Hank pulls away. “I don’t know how much of my chassis I’ll have to remove, but I’d like to be as accessible as possible.”

Hank hooks his thumbs into the waistband and tugs the boxer briefs down, kissing Connor’s hip gently. He folds them, setting them on top of the pile growing on the bench.

“I’m going to start my maintenance routine,” Connor announces.

Hank nods, folding his arms and blowing a loose strand of hair from his face. “Get on with it.”

The screen flashes as waves of text cycle downwards, Connor’s skin flickering and pulsing below his neck before drawing back completely with a soft static ‘whoosh.’ Hank watches with a carefully guarded expression.

* * *  
01000101 01101110 01100111 01100001 01100111 01100101 00100000 01101101 01100001 01101001 01101110 01110100 01100101 01101110 01100001 01101110 01100011 01100101 00100000 01100100 01101001 01100001 01100111 01101110 01101111 01110011 01110100 01101001 01100011

DIAGNOSTIC ENGAGED

RK800 SERIAL NUMBER 313 248 317 - 51  
SCANNING SYSTEMS

DETECTING DAMAGE  
SCANNING IN PROGRESS  
. . . .  
. . . .

* * *  
PROCESSING AT FULL POWER

CHARGE AT 86%

MAJOR MOTOR FUNCTIONS UNSTABLE  
DAMAGE IN SECTOR 3442A  
DAMAGE IN SECTOR 6988C  
DAMAGE IN SECTOR 4201A  
DAMAGE TO BIOCOMPONENT SV76-3495

REPAIR TECHNOLOGICAL COMPONENTS BETWEEN SECTORS  
REPLACE BIOCOMPONENT SV76-3495 TO REACTIVATE MAJOR MOTOR FUNCTIONS

* * *

PLEASE SEEK NEAREST CYBERLIFE CENTER FOR ASSISTANCE.

 

“Sector 3442A?” Hank asks, scratching at his beard and squinting at the monitor.

“That’s just below my neck,” Connor replies. “In layman's terms.”

Hank nods curtly, still stroking at his beard as he reads. “Biocomponent SV76-3495?”

“That’s part of my spine.” Connor looks thoughtful. “I believe I have spares in the refrigerator.”

Hank scoffs at him, turning away from Connor’s suspended form to yank open the door on the fridge in the corner. He used to keep meat and extra soda in the thing before Connor showed up. Now it’s full of excess biocomponents. He shifts through the carefully organized packets, finally finding a vacuum sealed vertebra suspended in Thirium. He holds it up over his shoulder. “This look right?”

Connor adjusts his vision, zooming in on the part. “That appears to be correct, yes.”

Hank slams the door and returns to the rig, tapping the knuckles of two fingers against Connor’s chest. “Open up, Robocop.”

Connor wrinkles his nose. “I asked you not to call me that.” Something clicks and his chest plate splits and slides open from the center, several smaller pneumatic doors following down his torso. His insides are a bright, glowing blue, his Thirium pump thumping rhythmically. The sight soothes Hank a little. Several pinpricks of red mix with the indigo on the left side of Connor’s chest, one sits right at his middle where his navel would be. The hues mix purple at the edges, the mechanisms of Connor’s insides glistening wetly in the fluorescence. Hank can see the fractured SV76 component slotted out of line up near Connor’s throat, bathed in the red glow. He swallows hard.

“How do I look, Lieutenant?” Connor’s tone is light. He’s deflecting. Both he and Hank know as much.

“You look like you got shot, dumbass,” Hank grunts, rolling his eyes. “What do I do first?”

Connor looks contemplative for a moment. “Replacing the SV76 might be the best course of action. That should allow me to better understand my overall condition.” 

“So what, I just pull the busted one out?” Hank steps closer, squinting into Connor’s chest. 

“First you should put on some gloves, Hank.” Connor sounds like he’s scolding a science student during lab. 

His partner gives him a look but moves to pull a pair of blue gloves from a box nearby. Hank snaps the rubber against his wrists. “Do you want me to put on goggles, too?”

“Practically speaking, yes.” Connor’s tone is polite. Hank levels him with a stare. “But as this is unorthodox to begin with, I won’t require them. This is for your protection, Hank. Not mine.”

“Alright, alright.” Hank rolls his wrist in a ‘move it along’ gesture.

“Locate the damaged biocomponent,” Connor says, sounding every bit like a textbook. Hank carefully reaches into Connor’s open chassis, tapping at the damaged vertebra with his fingertip. 

“Located.”

“Remove it,” Connor says, “carefully.”

Hank takes a breath and wraps two fingers and a thumb around the thing, wiggling it slowly out to the side. Connor doesn’t even blink. Hank finally snaps the component out of line, carefully pulling his hand back and holding it up for Connor to see. “Look right?”

“It appears damaged, yes.” Connor nods shortly, then motions to the sealed component on the table. “Please complete the procedure.”

Hank sets the busted piece on the table and lifts the package, tearing its perforated edge. He tips the package up in an effort to keep the Thirium from spilling onto the floor, but a few drops plop wetly onto the concrete. “You’re so bossy.”

“I would like my body to work, Hank.”

Hank slips the vertebra from its package. He holds it up for Connor to see. “This way?”

“It’s upside down,” Connor says, trying not to smile. His eyes crinkle and Hank clicks his tongue.

Connor watches him correct his mistake and Hank’s hand disappears into his chest again, the tips of his gloves dark from Connor’s blood. He’s so cautious, nudging the faux bone between the other two with the patience of a sculptor. Finally, finally it snaps into place and Connor’s body jolts, the screen next to him flashing with text too quickly for Hank to keep up. Both his LED and the red light near his neck flash to yellow, then blue.

“Gh,” Connor’s jaw clenches and he relaxes, his shoulders rolling slightly. He realizes slowly that he can feel his chest, his shoulders, his right arm. Hank is looking at him like he’s a caged animal and Connor smiles, a small, gentle thing that sends a surge of relief through Hank’s body.

Connor waves his right hand and Hank chuckles. He reaches out and clasps Connor’s hand, running his lips over Connor’s knuckles. “Feel that?” His breath is hot against Connor’s skinless chassis.

Connor’s Thirium pump stutters. “Yes.” He stretches his fingers, resting his palm against Hank’s cheek. “I’d like to feel the rest of you, too.”

Hank turns his head to kiss at Connor’s palm, rubbing his scruff against the plastic flesh. Connor’s arm tingles, the sensation rushing up his arm. The small fans in his chest turn on with a whirr and Hank gives him a small smirk.

“Shall we continue?” Connor asks, voice wavering. 

Hank releases his hand, again moving to peer inside Connor’s glowing guts. “What next?”

“I’d like to test my internal sensors,” Connor says, wrangling his voice somewhere closer to normal. “Can you see a section of tubing with yellow rings near the base?”

Hank leans in. Connor can feel his breath brush past his wiring, Hank’s careful touch as he nudges some cords aside. “Yeah.”

“Please tug it, gently.”

“Tug it?” Hank’s eyes dart to his face. Connor meets his gaze. “Like, just. Grab it with my fingers and pull.”

“Not too hard.” Connor’s tone is cautious, his voice soft. “But yes. With your fingers.”

Hank shrugs, sliding his gloved fingers around the tubing. His grip is light, but Connor still feels something sharp and electric surge up his neck. He fights the urge to bite his lip, his functioning hand clenching loosely into a fist. Hank strokes at the ridged surface, trying to figure out the best place to close his fingers around, finally holding tight near the top. He tugs, gently, three times.

The first time, that electric surge shoots up Connor’s neck into the back of his head, settling like a warm hand. The second tug loosens the tubing from its socket and Connor whines, sensors sending him alerts and confirmations one after the other. The third makes the tubing pop out and Hank starts to swear, but stops when Connor moans brokenly, a desperate, glitched sound, and drops his head to his chest.

Connor huffs out shallow little breaths, pathetic little synthetic things, while Thirium dribbles from the socket and drips down Hank’s wrist. He stares at Connor’s face, brow furrowed and eyes wide. 

“That feels… Good?” His voice is gruff, his shoulders tense. The back of his neck is a flushed, patchy red.

“Yes,” Connor chokes out, ignoring the warnings flashing across his vision. “I didn’t… I wasn’t aware it would.” His pump is fluttering, casting blue light across Hank’s form like he’s standing over a swimming pool long after sundown. “Can you plug that back in? I’m losing Thirium.”

Hank nods, hooking the thumb of his free hand into the opening in his chest, his fingers curling around the plastic surface of Connor’s ribcage. He lines up the tubing and inserts it with a jerk of his wrist. Connor’s sensors spark and he whimpers, biting his lip and letting his eyes drop closed. He can hear Hank breathing, the air leaving him rougher than usual.

Connor opens his eyes when something presses to his lips and his body flashes hot again when he realizes it’s Hank’s gloved fingers. He takes two of them into his mouth eagerly, licking his own blood from the slick surface.

“Don’t wanna waste it.” Hank says, voice low. 

We have bags and bags of it in the fridge, says Logical Connor. This is extremely inefficient.

But instead, Connor slides his tongue between Hank’s fingers and laps at his palm. Hank puts his last two fingers into Connor’s mouth and he can feel the drool and blood dripping down his chin. His eyes are half-closed, but he can’t stop looking at Hank, at his expression, the hard edge of concentration in his face. He’s looking at Connor like Connor is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, like if he blinks too much he might miss something life changing. Connor leans forward to let the fingers hit the back of his throat and gurgles, watching Hank’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallows hard.

Connor pulls off his fingers with a smack, running his tongue over his bottom lip.

“Holy fuck,” Hank breathes. The blush crawling up his neck has settled on his ears, his cheeks. Sweat beads at his temples.

“Thank you,” Connor murmurs. “I believe my sensors are in working order.”

Hank barks out a weak laugh at that, the hand still on Connor’s ribcage gripping hard. He reaches the hand slick with Connor’s spit back into his wiring, tugging gently at different pieces and parts. Connor’s eyes drop closed and his brow furrows, his teeth digging further into his lip.

“Hank,” he whines, the fingers on his functioning hand twitching. There’s nothing for him to hold but they grasp blindly, jolting when Hank tugs a particularly sensitive part. “Hank, please.”

“Should I stop?” Hank’s tone is patient and his grip loosens.

Connor takes a shuddering breath, shaking his head. “I…” He shakes his head a little more, trying to clear it. “I’d like to get my other sensors working before we continue.” He meets Hank’s gaze evenly, something heavy in his eyes. “I want to feel everything.”

“Right,” Hank huffs, rolling a wire between his fingers. Connor twitches, his head jerking violently to the side as he keens. Hank pulls his hand out like he’s been shocked and Connor pants, his fans flaring back to life.

“Sorry, sorry!”

Connor shakes his head, tilting it back to clear it. It doesn’t work very well, but he’s lucid enough to remember what to do next. “Do… Do you see the error lights in sector 6988C?”

“Your guts are like the Fourth of July.” Hank growls. “You’re gonna have to be more specific.”

“My… My shoulder.” Connor points weakly. “My left shoulder. There should be three red lights.”

Hank leans in again, resting his palms on Connor’s hips. “Yeah, yeah I see ‘em.”

“Those three sensors were overloaded,” the android explains. “The connectors burnt out. You have to remove the brackets and replace the fuses.”

“We got those here?” Hank’s eyes are focused on Connor’s insides and the sight makes his fingertips tingle.

“In the top left drawer of the workbench.”

Connor watches Hank’s back as he turns to dig through the specified drawer, curling and uncurling his hand into a fist. He wants Hank’s fingers tangled in his guts. The thought both repulses and excites him. It’s dangerous, but not exceedingly so… Connor hasn’t felt this vulnerable since being attacked in the kitchen of Stratford Tower. His thoughts are interrupted as Hank calls out, holding up three glass tubes.

“Look right?” He rumbles, gaze searching.

Connor scans them, analyzing the metal inside, and nods. “Those should be sufficient.” Hank starts to walk towards him and he holds out his hand. “You’ll need to retrieve a screwdriver.”

Hank rolls his eyes, turning back around slowly. “Jesus, Connor. One second you sound like something out of a porno and the next you’re lecturing me like I’m in high school.” He yanks open the long drawer in the middle that holds his toolkit. “How big. What kind.”

“A small Phillips,” Connor says, pressing the nail of his thumb to the plastic of his index finger. “Do you consume a lot of android pornography, Hank?”

“Smartass.” Hank turns back around, his cheeks flushed. He stomps back to stand before Connor’s suspended form, lifting the hand holding the fuses. “Hold these.”

Connor lets Hank set them in his palm. Their eyes meet briefly, a look passing between them. Anticipatory. Curious. Connor fights the urge to scan Hank before he dips down, his arm disappearing back into Connor’s chest. Connor can feel Hank loosening the screws around the base of the first sensor, this sensation subtle compared to the others. He hears the drag of glass and Hank holds up one of the busted fuses, squinting at the melted mess within. “This seems kind of old fashioned.”

“But it worked,” Connor says, the corner of his mouth curling up. 

Hank looks up at his face, unimpressed, and takes one of the fresh fuses from Connor’s lifted hand. “Guess I can’t argue with that.” He slides the fuse into place and replaces the screws, turning them with decisive snaps of his wrist. A dull buzz settles in the tip of Connor’s thumb. Hank carefully removes and replaces the second, and the sensation moves into his index and middle fingers. Connor closes his eyes, readying himself for the third.

As Hank slots it into place the screen on the side of the rig blinks to life again and Connor’s left arm jerks forward, the lights inside of his torso flashing red. Hank steps back, barely dodging the flailing limb. Connor’s insides flash red to yellow, yellow to blue, like they had before, his jaw clenched and his expression tight. Finally, his arm stills.

“You good?” Hank’s voice is tinged with concern.

Connor flexes the fingers of both hands, tapping his thumb to each of them as he rolls his neck, then his wrists. “I appear to be.” He reaches for Hank, his expression soft. “I’m sorry to frighten you.”

“You didn’t frighten me.” Hank steps close again, letting Connor touch his cheeks, his beard, his hair. “I just didn’t wanna get punched.”

Connor breathes out a chuckle. He scratches the hair on Hank’s jaw, smiling as Hank leans into the touch. His beard is familiar against Connor’s hands and he cards through the strands slowly, his synthetic nails scraping gently against Hank’s skin. “Hank,” he murmurs, his voice impossibly soft. “Kiss me.”

“What did I say,” Hank grunts, leaning up as he speaks. “So bossy.”

Connor huffs out a laugh against Hank’s mouth, his hands fisted in Hank’s hair as their lips press together. It starts slow, a completely innocent thing. Connor’s relieved to be alive, to be in their house, to be even half functional. Hank’s grip drifts to his waist and he tilts his head, a noise falling from his lips as Hank licks into his mouth. He makes a disgruntled sound and pulls away slightly. Connor can see the blue stain on his tongue.

“This gonna kill me?” Hank wipes his tongue on his arm, watching the blue patch evaporate slowly. 

Connor shakes his head, impatiently pressing small kisses to Hank’s cheek. “You’ll be fine.”

“Hm.” Hank catches his mouth again and Connor’s body sags where it’s suspended, his eyes dropping closed. Hank’s mouth is hot and wet, the taste of his saliva mixing with the dull flavor of Connor’s blood. He can feel Hank’s pulse pounding in his neck, the slight perspiration that breaks out along his skin.

Hank bites at his bottom lip just as Connor feels something tug in his chest and he jerks his head back, a bolt of sensation shooting up through his spine to the base of his skull. His sensors indicate it’s the tubing from before and he looks down at Hank’s face, past it, and focuses his blurry vision on the wrist disappearing into his torso.

“Hank,” Connor gasps, and the sound is tinny. 

“Tell me if it hurts,” Hank murmurs.

Connor’s brow furrows and then shoots upwards as something probes into the opening left by the tube. It’s hot, it’s impossibly hot, and his system is overwhelmed with warnings. 

!! FOREIGN ENTITY DETECTED.  
!!! REMOVE IMMEDIATELY.

Hank’s bicep flexes and the object jerks deeper, Connor’s upper body twitching and his eyes rolling back. He runs a scan, trying to determine exactly what Hank’s sticking inside of him, and detects rubber, organic material. It’s his finger. The thought alone makes Connor’s head drop back, his voice tearing out of him in a fractured, static-riddled moan. “Hank..!”

The finger pulls out and slides back in, Hank’s other hand clenched around his hip. Connor pictures the way the thick digit looks squeezing into the port, the way Connor’s blood looks sliding down the valleys and peaks of Hank’s knuckles, how it colors the soft skin of Hank’s forearm just below the wrist. Connor’s back arches and he tugs Hank’s hair, earning himself a groan.

The ridge of Hank’s gloved fingernail grazes the edge of the port as he pulls out and Connor’s pump stutters. “Feel okay?” Hank grunts, shallowly dipping his finger into the gap.

Connor nods, his mouth open. “It feels good,” he manages, forcing his gaze to Hank’s face. He’s flushed red, his eyes focused on Connor’s every move, the fabric of his shirt damp with sweat. Connor’s gaze dips lower and he can make out the thick bulge of Hank’s dick in his jeans, trapped against his thigh under the denim. 

“Good to know.” Hank’s voice is gruff, soft, and Connor’s jaw clicks shut as Hank plugs the tube back in with a rough motion. Electricity races up his spine. “What have we got left, then?”

Connor can see the blood on Hank’s hand as he removes it from his torso. Thirium drips down to Hank’s elbow in delicate little ribbons, glistening against the pale flesh. It’s more beautiful that Connor’s processor had predicted and he parts his lips slightly, glancing to Hank’s face. Hank catches him looking and his gaze dips down before it returns to Connor’s.

“Again?”

“Like you said,” Connor murmurs. He wraps his fingers around Hank’s wrist. “Don’t want to waste it.”

Hank watches Connor bring his hand to his mouth, watches the pink of his tongue as it slides past his lips and drags over his finger. Dark blue pools against the flat surface, leaving pale blue in its wake as Connor pulls his tongue back in and swallows. Hank swallows, too.

“Jesus.”

Connor shifts Hank’s arm, swiping his tongue from his elbow to his wrist. He takes the bottom edge of the glove between his teeth and pulls is head back, releasing it with a snap. Hank makes a noise in his throat. Connor can feel his heated gaze on his face as he cleans the rest of Hank’s arm, slowly and methodically.

He finally releases Hank’s wrist, satisfied with his work. Hank hooks his thumb into Connor’s mouth and pulls his jaw down, his fingers curled beneath Connor’s chin. Connor can see the image reflected in Hank’s eyes, the way his thumb dents the muscle of Connor’s tongue.

Hank spits into his mouth. Connor groans, his eyes rolling back. Hank rubs his own saliva into Connor’s tongue with the pad of his thumb, making little circular motions.

“That okay?” Hank murmurs, finally withdrawing his hand. 

Connor licks his lips, his eyes not leaving Hank’s. “More than okay.”

Hank clears his throat. He adjusts himself, trying to keep the movement small and subtle. It is not subtle. He looks back at the monitor. “Alright. Sector 4201A.”

“That’s near my hips.”

Hank leans down, resting his palm against Connor’s waist as he peers into the blue cavern of his chest. “So, what. You still can’t move anything below the belt?”

“Correct,” Connor confirms. 

Hank’s hand dips lower, to Connor’s thigh. Connor watches it move. “How do we fix it? Another fuse?”

Connor’s LED flashes as he processes the damage. “It seems some of the wiring around my spine has fused together.” Hank’s face pales a little at that. “You’ll have to remove it and install new hardware.”

“Sounds… Complicated.” Hank rubs his thumb against the white of Connor’s thigh. 

Connor watches, reaching a hand out to push Hank’s hair from his face. “You said you could handle it, Hank.” His tone is light, teasing. 

Hank scoffs. “What happens if I fuck it up?” 

Connor looks thoughtful. “Nothing too dire. I continue to lack feeling and movement in the lower half of my body. You take me to Cyberlife for professional repair.”

Hank’s expression goes sour. “After seeing how you react, I definitely don’t want a stranger digging around in your guts.” He looks back to Connor’s face. “You can’t feel anything down here, either?”

“Correct.” 

Hank’s mouth goes crooked. He taps a finger against Connor’s knee, looking from his open chest to his face and back again. He slides his hand up Connor’s thigh towards the smooth lips between his legs. 

Connor’s LED spikes yellow. “Lieutenant…”

“Detective,” Hank teases. He rests his hand just beneath the open chasm of Connor’s chest, his thumb grazing the gentle slope below. Connor wants to curl his toes, wants to feel the warmth there, his eyes focused sharply on Hank’s movements.

Hank dips his thumb lower, between Connor’s legs. The pad of his thumb presses against Connor’s clit, stroking slowly. The sight makes Connor’s pump stutter. He can remember exactly how it feels, can play back a hundred memories of the sensation, but he doesn’t want to remember. He wants to be present, to feel it now. Hank rubs the heel of his hand up over him and he shudders.

“Hank, please.” Connor’s voice is forced even, polite. 

Hank’s mouth jerks up into a smirk. “What?”

“I want to feel you.” Connor says, matter of fact but for the waver when Hank dips his hand between Connor’s legs.

“I just wanted to see,” Hank murmurs, the angle of his wrist shifting, “if you can get wet without your sensors in order.” Connor realizes there’s fingers inside of him and presses his own hand to his mouth, brow furrowing as he watches Hank move. He feels like he’s watching a bizarre film, a recording of himself he doesn’t remember being made. It sends a tremor up his spine.

Hank slowly slides his fingers out, holding them up where Connor can see. His breathing is labored as it hisses out through his nose. Hank parts his first and middle finger and Connor watches strings of lubricant stretch and snap between them. Connor’s LED flashes yellow, blue, yellow. Hank looks from his hand to Connor’s face. “Look at that.”

Connor looks. He bites down on the flesh of his lower lip behind his hand. Hank wipes his gloved fingers on Connor’s thigh, the wet patch glistening illogically against the white. 

“Hank.” Connor’s voice is soft. Desperate. “Fix me.”

Hank licks his lips, nodding and standing up. He cups the back of Connor’s neck, pulling their foreheads together. “Alright, alright. I got you.” His hand slips off Connor’s neck and he leans down, squinting into the blue light. “Tell me what I’m looking for.”

“Probably a mass of wires with damaged casing.” Connor’s voice is quiet. He closes his eyes, trying to calm his racing processor. “Towards the back of my torso, near my spine.”

Hank shifts some wires out of the way, the brief contact sending pulses thrumming through Connor’s system. “Oh, yeah. I see it.”

“You’ll need to cut and strip the wires.” Connor tilts his head back, eyes still shut. “There’s replacements in the bench.”

“Got it.” Hank pulls away, turning to yank open a drawer and rifle through it. The clink of tools jostling and chiming against each other calms Connor’s desperate nerves. He opens his eyes as Hank returns, holding what he needs. “Do I need to worry about you… I don’t know. Shocking me?”

“I’ll close off the circuits and divert power elsewhere.”

“So, no.” Hank reaches back inside him, and Connor can hear the wire cutters severing the burned connectors. Hank blows hair out of his face, glancing up with a small smile when Connor’s hand pushes it off his forehead, holding it back. “Thanks.”

Connor hums softly, watching Hank’s concentrated expression. He’s stripping plastic from the wires, throwing it on the floor beneath them. The pieces land with little hollow plinks.

“You’re lucky these are color-coded,” Hank grumbles, squinting as he inserts a wire and twists it into place. “Otherwise I might blow the bottom half right off of you.” 

Connor laughs, his grip tightening in Hank’s hair. Hank glances up again, that lopsided grin of his flashing across his face for a moment. He inserts another wire, twists it into place. Connor can see Hank’s cock still sitting hard against his thigh, the red blush at the back of his neck. He chews his bottom lip, letting his fingers trace the shell of Hank’s ear. “You’re more than welcome to.”

Hank snorts, inserting the last wire. He seems more sure of himself now, his motions fluid and precise. “Alright.” He draws his hand out, patting Connor’s flank. “Try that.”

Connor redirects the currents back to their original circuits, his insides flashing red as he does. Heat surges down to his toes and his whole body jerks violently, his simulated breath catching in his throat. The monitor blinks with line after line of text and Connor can see Hank staring at him through the glitched tunnel of his vision. His machinery flashes yellow. Red. Yellow.

01000101 01101110 01100111 01100001 01100111 01100101 00100000 01101101 01100001 01101001 01101110 01110100 01100101 01101110 01100001 01101110 01100011 01100101 00100000 01100100 01101001 01100001 01100111 01101110 01101111 01110011 01110100 01101001 01100011

DIAGNOSTIC ENGAGED

RK800 SERIAL NUMBER 313 248 317 - 51  
SCANNING SYSTEMS

DETECTING DAMAGE  
SCANNING IN PROGRESS  
. . . .  
. . . .

* * *  
SYSTEM DIAGNOSTIC COMPLETE

NEUROLOGICAL FUNCTIONS — STABLE  
COMMUNICATION SYSTEMS — STABLE  
THIRIUM PUMP REGULATOR — STABLE  
MAJOR MOTOR FUNCTIONS — STABLE

With a final jerk, Connor returns to blue, stilling. He hears Hank exhale heavily a few feet away as Connor flexes his toes, his fingers, watching his limbs move. The impenetrable numbness is gone, replaced with the thrum of electricity. He can feel the cool air of the garage, the wet patch on his thigh, the space beneath his toes and the floor where they dangle. He presses his fingers inside himself and touches the wires Hank replaced. They’re flawless. He beams. The pneumatic doors close softly over his hardware.

“You okay?” Hank’s voice is guarded.

“I’m great.” Connor reaches for him. “Fully operational.”

Hank presses against him and Connor wraps his hands around Hank’s shoulders, holding him close. “Good.” He pulls away after a few moments, reaching to grab Connor under his arms. “Let’s get you down from there.”

Without thinking, Connor grabs hanks wrists. “Wait.”

Hank’s brow furrows.

“I…” Connor blinks, looking down, his voice quiet but even. “I want… Can you fuck me… here?”

“On the rig,” Hank clarifies, watching Connor’s face. 

Connor meets his eyes, nodding, a short, small bob of his head. “Yes.”

Hank exhales through his beard, lips curled in towards his teeth. He pulls himself from Connor’s grip gently and Connor lets him go, watching his movements anxiously.

Hank steps closer, presses his lips to Connor’s cheek, his neck. Connor’s eyes flutter shut and he melts, turning his head towards Hank’s. Hank’s hands drag up his thighs, rest on the back of his them just below the crest of his ass. Connor digs his fingertips into Hank’s back, the dull plastic of his nails cutting into the muscle. Hank’s palms slide up and spread him and Connor feels the wet slip out of him, drip down between his legs. He shudders.

Hank kisses the corner of his mouth and drops to his knees, his tongue immediately on Connor’s clit, then sliding slickly over the lips of his entrance. Connor’s jaw immediately drops open, his hands pressed to Hank’s scalp.

“Hank… Hank!” Connor’s voice is clipped, his chin dipping to his chest. Hank slides a finger into the wet heat of him and his toes curl, Hank’s mouth hot against the rest of him. Hank’s other hand slides up his front, the surface of the glove dragging on the plastic of his chassis. 

Hank taps with two fingers, pulling away from him with a wet smack. “Open back up.”

Connor hurries to comply, baring the blue of his guts without a second thought. Hank’s mouth returns to his clit, and another finger slips into him as Hank digs a hand into his wires and twists.

Connor’s entire body jerks violently, his censors overwhelmed by the variety and intensity of stimuli. The wet heat of Hank’s mouth, his tongue, the rough strokes of it over him, the stretch of his fingers inside, the electric pulse blasting through him from the disturbance in his core. His voice comes out as static, pitched up whines and groans fractured discordantly. Hank pulls off him to breathe, watching Connor’s face as he tugs hard on different pieces, his fingers hooking inside.

“Fuck me, Hank,” Connor sobs out, his voice layered with different pitches and glitches. “Split me in half.”

Hank swears and pulls out, standing shakily and struggling with his belt. Connor’s fluids seep into his jeans as he yanks them down, his boxers with them. His cock hangs heavy and flushed between his legs. Connor whimpers at the sight of it, gripping Hank’s shoulders as he draws near. Hank’s trembling, and Connor can smell his sweat, a heady, heavy scent that makes him lick his lips.

Connor wraps his legs around Hank’s waist and he watches as Hank grips himself with his gloved hand, rubbing the head of his dick against the wet bud of Connor’s clit. His precum smears there and Connor bucks his hips, grunting as the head presses against his entrance.

“Jesus, you’re hungry for it,” Hank breathes. He stills Connor with a hand on his hip, shifting and bending his knees to line himself up. Connor’s hands slide into his hair, gripping hard. He tugs gently as Hank sinks up into him, sighing, his eyes dropping closed.

Hank slowly sheaths himself completely, a rattling breath punching its way out of his lungs. Connor clenches around him, drawing him closer with his legs, dipping his head to catch Hank’s mouth with his own. Hank kisses him hard, deep, licking into him and biting at his lips. Connor revels in the fact that he can feel it all: the burning, thick weight of Hank inside him, the hand Hank slides back inside his chest, the sweat-slick surface of Hank’s skin against him.

Hank. Hank. Hank.

He keens when Hank starts to thrust into him, pulling out slowly before bucking up, hard, his pace slow but deep. Hank breathes hard against his mouth, his hand scrambling and scraping at the walls of his chest.

“Turn off your skin.” Hank’s voice is gravely, harsh.

“It is off,” Connor gasps back.

“Not all the way.”

It’s hard to process the request in addition to everything else, but he does, letting the human facade slide off his face to leave only smooth white. Hank doesn’t even flinch, pressing his tongue against Connor’s jaw, dragging a wet line towards his ear. It’s overwhelming, feeling this all against his chassis, unguarded. Vulnerable. Hank snaps his hips up harder, faster, and the rig creaks. Connor groans, glitched and shameless.

God, Hank is big. He adjusts the angle of his thrusts and Connor’s eyes squeeze shut as Hank’s fingers graze the base of his Thirium pump. He’s sure he’s going to overheat. He can hear his fans whirring desperately, his breath doing nothing to cool him down. He keeps swallowing the hot air puffing from Hank’s mouth, drinking in the heat pouring from his skin. He’s getting warnings now, flashing bright yellow in the corner of his vision.

Hank pulls back to grip at his hips, to pound into him with all he’s got, and Connor reaches inside himself, pulling at components he knows will make his circuits sing. Hank swears loudly, the metal joints of the rig groaning louder and louder as he moves.

“Please,” Connor’s voice is barely recognizable as he moans, and the sound twists Hank’s own guts. “Fill me up, Hank.”

Hank growls, slapping one of his hands on Connor’s shoulder, the hand on Connor’s hip creaking as he squeezes the slope of it. His grip slides up to Connor’s nape and he pushes Connor’s neck down, making him watch where they intersect, where Hank fucks into him.

“Watch me do it.”

Connor’s eyes go wide and his fist clenches around a grouping of wires in his chest, his body clenching around Hank’s dick. Hank comes, hard, groaning roughly as his gloved hand grips the back of Connor’s neck. The heat of Hank’s cum is another stimulant, another thing to process, and Connor’s jaw goes slack as he feels his systems seizing, feels himself come hard around Hank, his LED a shrieking red just before his vision goes dark.

01000101 01101110 01100111 01100001 01100111 01100101 00100000 01101101 01100001 01101001 01101110 01110100 01100101 01101110 01100001 01101110 01100011 01100101 00100000 01100100 01101001 01100001 01100111 01101110 01101111 01110011 01110100 01101001 01100011

DIAGNOSTIC ENGAGED

RK800 SERIAL NUMBER 313 248 317 - 51  
SCANNING SYSTEMS

DETECTING DAMAGE  
SCANNING IN PROGRESS  
. . . .  
. . . .

* * *  
SYSTEM DIAGNOSTIC COMPLETE

NEUROLOGICAL FUNCTIONS — STABLE  
COMMUNICATION SYSTEMS — STABLE  
THIRI

“Connor!”

The reboot menu fractures in his vision. Something is tapping his face.

“Connor, hey!”

His eyes flutter open, his brows furrowed. The garage snaps into clarity, Hank’s face close to his own, his expression unreadable. Connor blinks rapidly, clearing the menu text from his optics. 

“Welcome back,” Hank chuckles. He’s wearing his boxers, a different shirt, his hair pulled back. 

Connor looks at him groggily. “Where did I go?” His voice is almost back to normal, only a thin layer of static still present.

“You overheated.” Hank pushes Connor’s hair from his face. Connor looks down at himself, at the sweatpants Hank must have put on him while he was out. He’s surrounded by box fans, the blades inside them slowing to a stop. “Really kills the afterglow, you know.”

Connor hums absently. “How long was I out?”

“Around half an hour.” Hank reaches up and lifts him out of the dock, sliding the panel closed over his charging port. “You okay to stand?”

Hank sets him on his feet and Connor tests his legs, nodding when he’s confident he won’t topple over. He takes the old T-shirt hank offers him, pulling it on. It’s soft from years of washing and wear, a faded band logo barely visible on the gray fabric. Connor looks up as Hank’s fingers press to the inside of his wrist, intertwines their fingers when Hank slides their palms together.

“Thank you for your assistance.” Connor follows hank back into the house, trying not to beam. Sumo lifts his head over the back of the couch, woofing quietly at Connor’s voice.

Hank chuckles, squeezing his hand. “Sure.”

**Author's Note:**

> Shoutout to Roomba for Dirty Old Man Neck Grabbing. Shoutout to all of you for loving me despite this weird, weird fixation. Find me on twitter @ biocomp9. Mwah.


End file.
